


in this twilight (how dare we speak of grace)

by sincereleo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, M/M, Multi, Time Travel, angst with happy ending, eventually, it's going to take a long fucking time but we'll get there, mlm author, our boys have a rough time, switch fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-02-16 12:58:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18691957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sincereleo/pseuds/sincereleo
Summary: Bucky Barnes is given a chance to go back to the moment he fell, to make things right, to help himself heal.Steve falls instead.Switch fic.





	1. a breath of peace

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Broken Crown by Mumford and Sons. There is a brief mention of past sexual assault in this chapter, not at all explicit. Please look after yourself, regardless. Much love!

He’s not that kind of doctor.

T’Challa tells Bucky that at least ten times before Bucky will agree to see him.

Not the pokey, shockey, mind-scrambling kind of doctor.  No white jackets. No restraints. No scalpels. No pain. 

T’Challa promised.  

Doctor Strange just wants to talk.

T’Challa promised, T’Challa promised, T’Challa promised.

Bucky is still trembling as he steps into the room.

This man doesn’t look like a doctor.  That lowers Bucky’s heart rate by a small amount.  He has facial hair worse than Tony Stark’s—hard to do—and he’s wearing a red cape.

Weird.

He looks up at Bucky and sits forward slightly—he doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t look unkind, either.

“Sergeant Barnes?”

Bucky swallows.  “Used to be.”

The doctor—not that kind of doctor—does smile at that.  “Incidentally, that’s why I’m here. Come sit down."

T’Challa’s right outside if Bucky needs him.

_ T’Challa’s right outside if Bucky needs him. _

Bucky gulps and sits down in a chair across from the doctor.

“My name is Strange.  Doctor Stephen Strange.”

“Not that kind of doctor,” Bucky says, before he can stop himself.

Doctor Stephen Strange smiles again.  “What kind of doctor are you referring to?”

“Bad kind.  Hurts. Messes around in my brain.”

Doctor Stephen Strange nods.  “You’re right. I’m not that kind of doctor.  You don’t have to worry, we’re just going to chat.”

“Not good at chatting.”

“What if I told you I could fix that?”

What.

T’Challa’s doctors have already tried to fix him.  And they’ve done more than Bucky had ever thought possible.  They’ve taken away Bucky’s code words—T’Challa puts on the Black Panther suit once a week and tests them.  And they’ve fixed his shoulder, where the arm attaches—he doesn’t wear the arm much right now, anyway, but it doesn’t hurt when he does.

They’ve been kind.

He still has panic attacks, if they do something to trigger him.  And there’s a lot of things that trigger him. The first time that T’Challa wasn’t there for one of his episodes Bucky almost broke one of the doctor’s neck before they were able to get him calmed down.  Now, T’Challa stays in the room with him.

T’Challa’s been great.  Now that he isn’t trying to murder Bucky, anyway.

But Bucky’s still not great at chatting.  No one’s been able to fix that.

“Sergeant Barnes?  You with me?”

Bucky blinks once, twice, thrice, and looks back at Doctor Stephen Strange.

“I’m here.  Fix how?”

Doctor Stephen Strange smiles again, and waves a hand in front of the weird necklace on his chest.  A compartment in the necklace opens and glows green. 

“Do you know what this is?”

Bucky shakes his head, even as he leans forward to get a closer look.

It’s… pulsing.

Almost like a heartbeat.

“This is the Time Stone.  I’m the guardian of it.”

“What does it do.”

“It does a lot of things.”

“How’s it supposed to fix me.”

“I can send you back, Sergeant Barnes.”

What.

“Back.  Back to where?”

“Wherever you want to go.”

W h a t.

“What do you mean.”

“I can take you back in time.  To before you fell. Before the Soldier.  You could have a chance to fix things.”

Before the Soldier.

Before the  _ Soldier _ .

“Why do you want to do that.”

Doctor Stephen Strange is quiet for a long time.

“I spent a lot of time helping people for a lot of money, a lot of glory, a lot of fame.  I didn’t do it for them, I did it for myself. I guess I just want to help somebody where there’s nothing in it for me.”

“Why me.”

“Why not you, Sergeant Barnes?”

Bucky pauses.  He doesn’t have an answer for that.

“What would happen.”

“You would retain all of your memories until you do something to drastically alter your timeline.  After that, anything that happened to you in this timeline won’t have happened at all, so you’ll lose those memories.  You’ll start fresh.”

“I’d forget everything.”

“Once you alter your timeline, yes.”

He’d forget everything.

He’d forget everything bad.  The chair and the shocks and the wiping.  The missions and the handlers and the code words.  Medical experiments, mental experiments… sexual experiments… 

But he’d forget the good things too.

Sparring with T’Challa, working with Shuri in her lab, tea with Ramonda, visits from Steve.

He would have to say goodbye to all of that.

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course.”  Doctor Stephen Strange’s voice is kind.  “King T’Challa will be able to alert me when you’ve decided.”

Doctor Stephen Strange stands up and extends a hand.  After a moment, Bucky stands as well and takes it.

There are scars on his fingers.  Deep ones.

“It’s been a pleasure, Sergeant Barnes.

Bucky nods.  “Thank you… Doctor.”

For once, the word doesn’t leave a bad taste in his mouth.

  
  


T’Challa is still waiting outside when Bucky leaves the room.

“Are you all right, James?” he asks, reaching out a hand but not quite touching him, not until Bucky leans toward him.  Then T’Challa’s hand closes around Bucky’s forearm, firm and bracing but gentle all the same.

“James?”

“Spar with me?” Bucky asks, without looking at T’Challa.  T’Challa squeezes Bucky’s arm tighter before releasing him.

“Of course.  Fetch your gear.  I will wait for you.”

“Thank you,” Bucky murmurs as he walks away.  He feels T’Challa’s eyes on him until he turns the corner.

  
  


T’Challa is already in his suit when Bucky arrives in the field.  T’Challa set aside the area specifically for he and Bucky to spar in; it’s surrounded by a special vibranium barrier that T’Challa can activate with a single word, should the code words work again, should Bucky snap.

If Bucky does snap, T’Challa has been sworn to do whatever it takes to keep Bucky inside that barrier, away from innocent people.

T’Challa smiles as Bucky approaches, pacing in his corner of their field, flexing vibranium claws

“Are you ready, James?”

Bucky straps on his vibranium arm and feels it hum to life, a soft glow of blue under the metal plates as he flexes, making sure it’s secure and working as Shuri intended.

It doesn’t hurt like the old one had.  That’s still a pleasant surprise, every time he uses it.  It attaches seamlessly, moves without stumbling, without creaking.

He actually feels whole with it on.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to thank Shuri enough.

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

T’Challa activates his helmet.  Bucky takes a breath and clenches his fists.  His left knuckles glow, a steady anticipation.

“ _ Longing _ .”

Bucky tenses, closing his eyes, rocking back on his heels.  T’Challa’s accent isn’t perfect, but that doesn’t make the words any easier to hear.  They’re a bullet to the gut every time.

“ _ Rusted _ .”  T’Challa is pacing around him, coiled and ready to strike.  “ _ Furnace _ .   _ Daybreak _ .”

Bucky shudders.  Sweat drips from his forehead.

“ _ Seventeen _ .   _ Benign _ .”

T’Challa moves a little closer on his next wrap around, and even with his eyes closed, even through T’Challa’s mask, Bucky can tell T’Challa is peering at him in concern.

“ _ Nine _ .”

Bucky is trembling.

“ _ Homecoming _ .”

And T’Challa comes to a stop in front of him.  The air between them crackles, the same nervous anticipation that’s there every time.

“Soldier?”

Bucky opens his eyes and, with immense difficulty, twists his mouth into a half-smile.

“Still ain’t gonna fuckin’ comply.”

Everything fucking aches.

T’Challa’s mask drops, revealing a proud, blinding smile.

“Excellent, James.”

A click, a snap.  T’Challa’s mask is back up.

He lunges.

With a grin, Bucky leaps to meet him.

  
  


This time, it takes fifteen minutes for T’Challa to have Bucky pinned to the grass.  That’s Bucky’s personal best. Bucky goes limp in T’Challa’s grip, panting. T’Challa buckles to the side, the mask sliding off yet again, and wipes his face.

“What is troubling you, James?”

Bucky stares up into the blue Wakandan sky above them.  He loves it here. The technology, the people, the culture, the safety… and though he knows he is barely anything more than a trespasser here, held afloat by T’Challa’s generosity, it feels almost sacrilegious to leave the only home he’s known since 1942 Brooklyn.

He doesn’t say anything.  He’s not entirely sure what is troubling him.

“I apologize if Doctor Strange upset you.  I was trying to help, but if you’d rather the subject be dropped…”

“T’Challa.”  Bucky reaches out, closes his metal hand around T’Challa’s wrist.  “No.”

“What is it?”

“Why?”

T’Challa looks over, face as warm and kind as the sun, bright on the grass around them.

“As I told Captain Rogers, the day I brought you here.  You and my father were both victims. My father is out of my reach.  You are not.”

“So…”

“So if I can help you find peace, I feel as though my father’s death will not have been in vain.”

“You’ve already done so much.”

“James.  You are not at peace.  I only have to say a few words to see that.”

“Those are trigger words.  They’re supposed to trigger.  Sure they’re not triggering what they were meant to—and that’s thanks to you, by the way—but I’m not about to start singin’ Somewhere Over the Rainbow, or—or fuckin’ tap dancing.”

 

“But if you go back, they won’t have been there at all.  That’s the point, James. You can re-write all of that.”

Not there at all—Bucky can’t even imagine what that would be like.  The life he had as HYDRA’s favorite assassin feels like a fever dream at this point.  Something dark and terrible but just out of his reach, like a pot not-quite boiling over.

Here in Wakanda, in the sun and the heat and the bright, he can almost forget about the decades he spent, a living ghost, in HYDRA’s basement, used and abused and lost.  But sometimes almost isn’t good enough, even in Wakanda.

Sometimes Bucky wakes mid-scream, tangled in sheets that, in the moment, feel more like straps holding him down for his latest experiment.  He’s always drenched in sweat that had, until he awoke, been a pool of his own blood.

Sometimes, the bedroom T’Challa gave him feels too much like the hotel rooms certain HYDRA handlers would take him.  Sometimes he jerks awake choking on his own bile, his own tears. It always takes a few helpless moments before the imaginary weight vanishes from atop him.

T’Challa’s men have found him asleep in the grass outside the palace more times than he can count.  They always walk him back inside to T’Challa’s chambers.

They’re very kind.

Sometimes, usually when he least expects it, Bucky gets trapped—stuck in an old memory.  Sometimes it’s watching himself get hurt. Most of the time it’s watching himself hurt other people.  It takes a long time for T’Challa or Shuri or Ramonda or Nakia to convince him the blood on his hands is an illusion.

Mostly because deep down he knows it’s not.

T’Challa is right.  Bucky’s a long way from peace.

Bucky stays quiet for a long time.  Words are hard for him, especially after the triggers.  T’Challa is exceptionally patient, staring at the clouds above them as though they hold all the world’s secrets.  What Bucky did to deserve T’Challa’s friendship, he’ll never know, but he thanks every god he’s ever heard of almost on the hour nevertheless.

“It’s not going to go away… in this timeline, right?  Everything that I… did… here. I’ll just be gone. And I won’t remember.  That’s not… atoning. That’s absolving.”

“You don’t need to atone, James.  You’ve done enough. You weren’t you.  We here know who you are now.”

“I still did them.  I don’t think I’ve done enough to… to make up for it.”

“You’ve been punished enough.  Stop punishing yourself more.”

Bucky closes his eyes and releases T’Challa’s wrist, resting the back of his left hand against his forehead.  The sensation of cold metal on skin does nothing to calm the squirming of his stomach.

“What if I… fuck it up again.  Or worse.”

“That’s a risk everyone takes, every day.  And they usually don’t get a chance to go back and make things right.”

“I’ll be leaving everything behind.  You, your mother, Shuri… Steve…”

God, Steve.  Bucky’s throat is threatening to close in on him.  What would Steve think about this?

“I spoke to Captain Rogers before I consulted Doctor Strange.  He has whole-heartedly given you his blessing.” T’Challa pauses.  “As for me and my family… we want to see you happy, James. You’ve been in pain for far too long.”

“I…”

“I won’t push you to make a decision.  You can take as much time as you need.”

Bucky nods some, sits up, wraps an arm around his knees.  He almost can’t believe it, the redemption, the relief within his grasp.  He doesn’t deserve it, no matter what T’Challa says; there’s too much blood on his hands.

Too much red in his ledger, as Romanoff would say.

Going back wouldn’t fix everything for everybody else.  All the people he hurt would still be gone. This wouldn’t bring them back, wouldn’t atone for their lives, wouldn’t heal their families.

But... he could make a world where it didn’t happen at all.  A new world, where the Winter Soldier didn’t ruin hundreds of lives.  One where Bucky Barnes could be happy. One where Steve Rogers could be happy.

Maybe together.

That maybe alone is worth the chance, right?

“I think… I think I want to.”  Bucky glances at T’Challa, who smiles, so fucking kind.  “I want to talk to Shuri.”

“Of course.  She should be in the lab.”

  
  


Shuri doesn’t greet Bucky like she usually does when he enters the lab.  She doesn’t even look up from the project she’s working on. He makes it all the way to her before she even acknowledges his presence, and even so it’s just a cursory glance up at him and back down.

“What’s up, sunshine?”

“So, you’re taking his offer.”  Shuri pulls a small tool over and tinkers with the little sphere in her hands.  It looks like she’s updating the Kimoyo beads again. 

That’s the third time this week.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Why would you come here if not to tell me you’re leaving?”

“I came here to see what you thought.  Evidently you don’t like the idea, huh?”

“No, I do not.  I do not think you should go traipsing back in time, back to the moment you were captured by the most dangerous terrorist organization the world has ever seen, on the slim chance you might be able to change what happened.”

“I can change it.  I can.” Bucky didn’t know he thought he could until the words came out of his mouth.  But he carries on in his newfound confidence, his heart going a little faster in his chest.

“Shuri, I’ve replayed that day… fuck, probably a million times.  I know exactly what I should have done. I can fix everything.”

“So.  You have decided.”

“I…”  Bucky takes a deep breath.  “Yeah. I think so.”

The little tool in Shuri’s hand snaps.  She tosses it aside and sets the dismantled Kimoyo bead down.

“I’ll miss you too, sunshine.”

 

Shuri’s shoulders slump.  “You won’t. That’s the thing.  Once you change something, it’s done.  You won’t remember any of us anymore.”

“I know.  I like to think I’ll still miss you though, even if I don’t remember who you are.”

“You’ll never come back.  And if you do, it won’t be you.”

“I’m sorry, Shuri.”

He really is.  Shuri, with her brilliance and her brightness and her strength and her joy, has been one of the brightest spots in his recovery.  She’s taught him more in a year than he had ever hoped to learn in his entire life, and taught him to laugh again as well.

She reminds him of Rebecca.  It’s a deep, warm ache in his heart.

“No,” Shuri says.  Her back is still to him, her voice trying not to shake.  “Don’t be. You’re right, if you have the chance to fix things, you should.  You deserve to be happy. It just… hurts.”

You and me both, kiddo.

“I can’t thank you and your family enough for what you’ve done for me.  That’s something I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget, not completely.  And if I am ever able to, I’ll be… I’ll be better. That’s all I want. A chance to be better.”

Shuri turns toward him and smiles some.  Her eyes are dry, but red-rimmed. “And you will get it.  If I know anything about you, I know that.”

“I’m sorry, if there were any other way—”

“If there were any other way, I would have found it by now.  I am very intelligent.” Shuri smirks. “There’s nothing else for us to try, so T’Challa found someone else to finish the job.  Because we care about you.”

There’s a tightness in Bucky’s chest and throat, and no matter how many times he tries to swallow it away, it remains.  “Thank you, Shuri.”

“When do you leave?”

“I… I’ll have to talk to T’Challa.  I didn’t want to give him an answer until I’d spoken to you.  But as soon as I can. I don’t want to… think about it so long that I change my mind.”

“Will you wait until Captain Rogers’ next visit?”

“T’Challa already spoke to him.  He gave his blessing. If I wait for him to come back…”

“You won’t go,” Shuri finishes, softly.  There’s a T’Challa-like softness in her usually fierce eyes.

“I don’t want him to watch me leave.  Again.”

“I understand.   I think you’re being incredibly brave, you know.”

“You sure you don’t think this is a cop-out?”

“I think we all want you to be at peace.  However you need to achieve that is up to you.”

Bucky hesitates, then holds his flesh arm out to her.  Shuri sets her tools aside and steps into the hug.

“I’m gonna miss you, princess.  I mean it.”

“Yeah.”  Shuri gives him a squeeze, pulls back, and punches him in the shoulder.  “Call me princess again and I’ll follow you back to 1945 and hunt you down.”

Bucky laughs.  It’s a little stilted, a little watery, but it’s the kind of laugh he owes to Shuri’s care.  He reaches up and unhooks his vibranium arm, holding it out to her.

“I guess you can have this back.  I’m gonna be returning to the original model.”

Shuri takes it and sets it aside on the workbench.  

“I’ll hang onto it.  Just in case.”

That’s as good as an “I’ll miss you too,” in Bucky’s case.

  
  


Okoye and Nakia are away on a mission; T’Challa promises to give them a message with Bucky’s goodbye and thanks.  Bucky says goodbye to Ramonda outside the room where he’ll be meeting with Doctor Stephen Strange. They don’t say much—he whispers “thank you,” and she smiles, pulling him into a warm embrace.

“You always have a home here, James,” she murmurs in his ear.  “Whether you remember or not.”

When Ramonda releases him, his throat is too tight to speak.  She smiles, nods her head, and motions him into the room.

T’Challa and Doctor Stephen Strange are standing in the middle of the room, talking together in low voices.  Bucky clears his throat, and they both quickly turn to him.

“...Everything okay?” Bucky asks, reaching to tap his knuckles uneasily against a wooden table.

“Yes, James.”  T’Challa smiles.  There is no hint of a lie in his eyes.  “Dr. Strange was reassuring be that the traveling process will not be painful for you.”

Oh.  A kindness.  Again. Bucky nods, his throat closing in.  T’Challa’s smile grows a little wider.

“Have you given any thought to the time you’d like to return to, Sergeant Barnes?” Doctor Stephen Strange asks.

Bucky nods again, tearing his eyes away from T’Challa’s smile.

“The train.  Five minutes before we swing down onto the train.”

T’Challa looks shocked.  “That’s right before…”

“I know.  I’ve rehearsed that day a million times.  If I can’t fix it now, I’ll never be able to.  Plus, if I go back earlier, there’s a chance I could accidentally change my timeline and erase my memories too early.  And then I’m fucked.”

“He’s got a point, Your Highness,” Doctor Stephen Strange says.  “The closer to the incident, the less room for error.”

T’Challa’s frowning now, but he nods.  “You know best. Are you ready, James?”

Wait.  Wait, just like that?

Bucky looks at T’Challa in something akin to panic.

What if he messes up.

What if he falls again.

If he falls again, the timeline won’t change.  Everything HYDRA did, he’ll have to go through again.  And he’ll still remember the first time around.

Bucky might throw up if he thinks about that for even another second.

“James.  No one is forcing you to do this.  If you’re not ready—”

“I’m ready.  I just… I’m nervous.”

T’Challa and Doctor Stephen Strange both smile.

“Sergeant Barnes, if anyone on this planet has cause to be nervous right now, it’s you,” Doctor Stephen Strange says.  “Here are the facts. I can guarantee you a safe, pain-free return to 1945. After that, we can’t help you. You’ll be reliant entirely on your own strength and memory of the event.  If you aren’t confident in your own abilities to keep yourself safe, then by all means, we can table this for a later date.”

“I hear you,” Bucky says, slowly.  “But… no matter how long we table it, there’s a chance something might go wrong.”

Bucky looks at T’Challa, his warm eyes, his strong face, his smile (god, Bucky’s going to miss that  _ smile _ ), and tries to return with a smile of his own.

“It’s like you said.  Everyone takes risks. Most people don’t get a second chance to make things right.”

T’Challa blinds him with yet another smile and steps forward, wrapping Bucky in a tight embrace.  Bucky presses his face into T’Challa’s shoulder and breathes deep, wreathing himself in the faint scent of earth and spices for the last time.

Or at least, the last time he’ll remember.

“I’ll be back,” Bucky promises—his voice is a little rougher than usual, but he tries to shake it off.  “I promise. I’ll be better.”

“I know, James.”  T’Challa pulls back, rests a hand on Bucky’s right shoulder.  “Be safe, be well. I’ll see you again.”

Bucky blinks the moisture from his eyes and clears his throat.

“Are you ready, Sergeant Barnes?” 

Bucky takes a deep breath and nods his head.  

There’s a flash of green, a sickening swoop of feeling deep in his stomach.

The next breath he takes is blistering cold, full of snowflakes.

Bucky looks around.   _ Shit _ .

The Howling Commandos are there, standing around him, bickering with one another about whether their plan is going to work or whether they’re all about to be plastered to the side of the mountain.

Steve is there, standing at Bucky’s right, looking out for the train with his keen vision.

Bucky’s stomach churns, and he looks down, and—Jesus fucking Christ.  His left arm.

His left arm is there.  And it’s not metal either.  It’s there, all five fingers—Bucky taps them together a few times.  They don’t clank.

This is real.  This is happening.

Fucking goddamnit.

“Something wrong, Buck?”

Fuck, that’s Steve’s voice.  That’s  _ Steve’s _ fucking voice, but there’s something different about it.  It’s less tired than Bucky remembers from back in 2017, less weighed down.  Brighter, happier, younger.

That’s  _ his _ Steve.

“Remember when I took you to Coney Island and made you ride the Cyclone?”

The familiar words fall from Bucky’s lips as easy as breathing.  At least his body remembers what to say, because his mind is otherwise occupied, rehearsing what has to happen once he gets inside the train.

Bucky’s never wanted T’Challa so badly in his life.  T’Challa was always good for a panic attack, and right now Bucky’s thirty seconds away from one.

“Yeah, and I threw up?”  Steve’s eyes are twinkling.

Fuck, Steve’s  _ eyes _ are  _ twinkling _ .  When’s the last time Bucky’s seen that?

Focus, Barnes.  This is your last chance.  Don’t fuck it up.

“This wouldn’t happen to be payback, would it?”

Steve laughs.  They swing out, onto the train.

No one’s fucking falling out this time.

Not on Bucky’s watch. 

  
  



	2. take this sinking boat (and point it home)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Falling Slowly by Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová.

It’s a blur, a too-familiar blur.

A flash of blue, a screech and squeal of tearing metal, the blinding bright white of snow outside the new hole in the side of the train car.

What’s new is what happens next.

What’s new is how Bucky remembers picking up the shield is what got him flung out of the train in the first place. So he doesn’t grab for it this time.

He doesn’t bank on Steve lunging for it. He doesn’t bank on Steve reaching it and picking it up, just as the HYDRA goon fires another blue blast from his enormous gun. And he definitely doesn’t bank on watching helplessly as Steve is blown backwards, too close to the hole, as he loses his footing, as he—

No—

NO—

Bucky fires one shot, and it hits true; the HYDRA agent crumples lifeless to the floor. Bucky doesn’t notice—he’s already running. He reaches the side of the train car, panicked, panting, and Steve is there, clinging to a piece of crumpled metal, feet kicking helplessly in the rush of air he’s caught in.

“Buck—” the word catches in Steve’s throat; his eyes are wide with panic. He reaches out with one hand, cut and bleeding from the scrap metal he’s clutching, and Bucky stretches out toward him, holding to the sturdy edge of the train car for dear life.

“I’ve got you Stevie, I’m comin’, hang on baby—”

He grabs Steve’s hand.

His fingers clutch tightly.

He pulls back, bracing one foot against the floor of the train car and his right hand against the sturdiest bit of wall he can find.

“Let go, Stevie, I gotcha.”

Steve lets go.

The train takes a curve, sharp and bumpy.

Bucky stumbles.

Time slows, then stills almost completely, and Bucky experiences the next few moments as long and drawn out as if they were years stretched before his horrified eyes.

Steve’s hand, slippery with blood, slides out of his.

Steve’s eyes widen, wide and terrified and teary blue against a stark white face.

And he falls.

He falls, Bucky’s name ripped from his mouth as he plummets.

His final scream lingers on the wind long after his body would have hit the ground.

Fuck. Bucky stumbles back, sliding to the floor of the train car, gasping for breath as Steve’s scream rings, loud and tinny and wrong, in Bucky’s ears. And all at once Bucky realizes what he’s done—he had held out his left hand, his fucking _left arm_ , forgetting he was back in 1945, forgetting he wasn’t wearing Shuri’s infallible vibranium…

...Wait.

Who? 

* * *

 

Something is wrong. Something is terribly, drastically wrong. More wrong than Steve being… being not-here. Bucky can’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t supposed to happen. And not like _Steve-wasn’t-supposed-to-die_ , because Bucky knows, as much as it kills him, that Steve was never meant to survive this war. Neither of them were. That’s what _no, what not without you_ , what ‘ _til the end of the line_ —that’s what those were always supposed to mean.

No, what’s eating away at him, what’s making this so goddamn fucking _hard_ —it’s that Steve wasn’t supposed to die there.

Bucky had gone into that mission determined, positively determined, that no one was going to fall out of that train. And that was a weird, weird thing to be determined about. Why would he have been worried about anyone falling out of the train anyway? They were supposed to have been inside, enclosed, away from the open air. There was a good chance Steve could have been shot, yeah, or fallen off the top, but falling out of the train itself? It was such a damn nonsensical notion Bucky has no idea why it was so prominent.

Or rather, he can’t remember. He feels like he’s forgotten something incredibly important. He feels like he’s ruined something very delicate.

Mostly, he just feels sick.

Peggy tries her best to help. The day after the fall, she comes to find him, sitting in a bombed-out shell of an old bar, a collection of empty bottles of whiskey on the table in front of him and another in his hand.

The knock-off serum Hydra fed into his system has only one key difference from Steve’s and right now it’s a real perk.

It takes a long time, and nearly eleven full bottles of whiskey, but Bucky can get drunk.

“Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy’s normal clipped accent is softened. Her eyes are red-rimmed, swollen. She broke down when Bucky told her the news, and it looks like she hasn’t stopped crying since.

“What.” Bucky swallows back a mouthful of whiskey and avoids her kind, understanding gaze.

“I loved him too, you know.”

“No. Not like I did.”

“Steve and I—”

“He told me.” Bucky takes another swig. “Not like I did. You may have loved that newfangled body of his better, but that’s not Steve.”

Peggy shakes her head. “You misunderstand. Steve and I never…”

Bucky quirks one eyebrow. “Definitely not like I did, then.”

Peggy is quiet for a very long time.

“I just thought he was shy,” she says, and chuckles. Quiet, choked, but a chuckle. “Figured he’d never—he was so awkward when he thought Howard and I were…”

“Fondueing?” Bucky snorts. “Steve knew how to play it. He already got beat up way too much as it was, if anyone found out we were… they’d’ve killed him.”

“They would have,” Peggy agrees. “I’m so sorry, James.”

“Don’t be.”

She sits down across from him and picks up another bottle.

They drink long into the night, in complete silence. 

* * *

 

In the weeks that pass, Bucky Barnes and Peggy Carter raze every HYDRA stronghold they can find to the ground, leaving only blood and ash in their wake. They speak little, and grieve less. At least, during the day. At night, every night, Bucky wakes screaming. His hands are grasping at thin air, and hot tears are pouring down his cheeks.

Most of the time, he dreams of Steve falling. Sometimes, though, he dreams of grabbing for other faces, other hands. These belong to a girl with eyes that crackle like fireworks on the Fourth of July, and a man with a smile as bright and warm as a summer sunrise.

When he wakes, he can’t remember where he knows them, or why he’s even dreaming about them at all.

Bucky takes up the shield, the star, the mantle of Captain America, and maybe he doesn’t fight for the same reasons as Steve had—for justice, for equality, for the little guy, but he still fights. And technically, he does fight for the little guy; a little guy, the little Steve that used to be, back in Brooklyn, always perched on Bucky's couch with a sketchbook and a dream and a bright eyed smile that got brighter every time Bucky walked in the door.

That Steve, the one Bucky holds deep in his heart, who Bucky treasures more than any other being in the world—in the universe—would never forgive Bucky if he walked away from this fight. 

* * *

 

In the end, when it’s time to take down Schmidt’s plane, Bucky doesn’t even hesitate. He knows it’s a suicide mission, he knows he won’t be coming home; the thing is, he doesn’t actually care.

Steve’s gone. Schmidt took Steve from him. Bucky’s going to make sure Schmidt pays for that, and then he’s going to join Steve, wherever he is. Whatever it takes.

Steve, little split-lipped, fists-trembling Steve, would be doing this because it’s the “right thing to do.” Bucky can only hope, when he sees Steve next, he won’t be faulting for doing it for such selfish reasons.

Howard designs Bucky a new suit for this, his last mission. Bucky doesn’t want to die in Steve’s clothes; it doesn’t feel right. The suit Howard makes is simple; brown leather, flexible enough that Bucky can move freely, sturdy enough to keep him alive until he does what he has to do. On the right shoulder, Howard includes a small patch—“S. R.”

“Thank you,” Bucky says, brushing his fingers across the patch, delicate, reverent.

“Of course,” Howard says, and pauses. “This, uh… this is the last suit I’m gonna have to make you, huh?”

“Hope so.” Bucky folds the suit up, tucks it inside his jacket. He stretches a hand out toward Howard and smiles in a manner he hopes is easy-going. Based on Howard’s face, it comes off more like a grimace.

“Barnes…” Howard takes his hand, but he looks… upset. Broken-hearted, even.

“I’m not coming home.” Bucky shakes Howard’s hand and drops it, determined. “I ain’t got a home, without him here.”

“You could try.”

“Thank you, Howard. But it’s no use. I’m a dead man walking.”

“Barnes, I’m telling you—”

“Goodbye, Howard. Thanks for everything.”

And Bucky walks out of the room, toward Peggy and General Phillips.

Toward his death.

Toward Steve. 

* * *

 

The mission goes smoothly, or about as smoothly as anything with Bucky ever goes. Schmidt is dead, dusted away into nothing, and the Tesseract is gone too, melted through the plane and into the water far below. Bucky didn’t really even have to do anything, which is a shame—he’d wanted to feel Schmidt’s life fade away under his own hands.

But the plane is still holding its cargo of bombs, and there’s nowhere Bucky can land where people will be safe from its deadly payload. He’s going to have to send the plane crashing into the Atlantic if he wants… pretty much everybody in America to survive.

This choice would have been easy for Steve. Steve was ridiculously self-sacrificing. It’s easy for Bucky too, but only because Bucky can’t bear the thought of abandoning ‘til the end of the line, not here.

Not when he’s _reached_ the end of the line.

He doesn’t call anyone. Steve probably would have called Peggy, pretended everything was going to be okay, that these weren’t his last moments. Bucky entertains, for a moment, calling Howard—he feels bad, leaving things the way he had. He and Howard could have been friends, maybe, in another lifetime.

But in the end, Bucky crashes into the ocean alone. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth and thinks of Steve's last scream as he plunges.

He'll see Steve again soon.

* * *

 

 

 

_“...a curve ball, high and outside, for ball one. So, the Dodgers are tied, 4-4…”_

What.

What. The. Fuck.

Is he back home? Has this whole awful war been a dream? Bucky had attended this game, in May 1941, with Steve on his right, small and skinny and coughing and beaming, a corn dog in each hand.

He reaches out with his right hand, three-fourths expecting to latch on to a too-skinny arm, but his hand closes only on scratchy sheets. Slowly, he opens his eyes.

It’s a small, white hospital room, nondescript in everything except for the small brown radio on the table next to him, playing the baseball game from the wrong year. Bucky’s dressed in a plain white shirt, too small for his chest, and khaki pants; his feet are laced into black leather boots. He sits up slowly and raises a hand to his face—he’s clean-shaven, just as he’d been the day he’d plunged into the ocean.

This is a trap. It has to be. Maybe HYDRA’s got their hands on him, he doesn’t know, but something’s wrong.

Jesus fucking Christ, Bucky can’t even die right.

The door opens, and a woman steps into the room. And this is most definitely a trap, because she doesn’t look… doesn’t look right. She’s dressed like a nurse, but her hair is loose, hanging around her face instead of pulled back and under a cap. Instead of an apron, she’s wearing a loose white blouse with a thick brown tie. And her chest… Bucky can see the outline of her undergarments through her clothes.

What the fuck?

“Good morning,” she says, and checks a bulky watch on her wrist. “Or should I say afternoon?”

“Where am I?” Bucky asks. His voice is so gruff he barely recognizes it.

“You’re in a recovery room in New York City,” she says.

Bucky sweeps his gaze around the room again, and then over her strange outfit, and chills run down his spine. Something’s not right.

“Where am I, really?”

The woman chuckles, but Bucky catches a glimmer of fear in her eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Oh, you’d better be afraid.

“The game. It’s from May, 1941—I know cause I was there.”

Now she’s definitely afraid. Slowly, Bucky stands and clenches his fists tight. “I’m gonna ask you again. Where am I.”

She steps back twice, eyes wide. “S-Sergeant Barnes—”

“Who are you!”

The door bursts open behind her—two men in what looks like full tact gear, but it’s not anything like Bucky’s ever seen before. They lunge toward him, and Bucky does the only rational thing he can think of and throws them directly through the wall.

They land in a heap on the other side, and the lighting is weird, different, almost blue. Bucky looks frantically at the woman and leaps through the hole. More men are approaching; Bucky can hear the woman calling after him, shouting that he’s left the room, but Bucky’s just running, heart pounding in his chest. He’s not going back into HYDRA’s clutches, he’s not. He’s not.

He somehow makes it out of the door unapprehended, but he’s accosted; not by soldiers or weapons, but by a wave of sound so loud and chaotic he nearly topples. It’s only a split second before he’s running again, but the sound continues, and there’s cars around him but they’re faster and oddly shaped, and there’s buildings taller than anything he’s ever seen before, and everything is too bright and too loud and—

“At ease, soldier!”

Bucky hadn’t even noticed he was surrounded until it happened. He spins around, gasping (he’s a supersoldier, he shouldn’t be gasping; is this what Steve felt like before the serum?), and stands stiff and shaking as a tall, dark-skinned man in a long coat and eyepatch approaches him.

“Look, I’m sorry about that little show back there,” the man says, and there’s something genuine in his tone that makes Bucky’s shoulders loosen a bit. “We thought it best to break it to you slowly.”

“Break what?” Bucky asks, voice too small for his own liking.

“You’ve been asleep, Sergeant,” the man says. Is that sympathy in his gaze. “For almost seventy years.”

Oh. Oh, god. Bucky looks away, staring around helplessly. Everything is moving too fast, everything is so loud—this is the future? This is what they fought for?

He’s going to be sick.

He wants to go home.

“You going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, but his voice is thick and shaky. “I just…”

He just what? Everything he’s ever known is gone.

“I know it’s a lot to take in. We’ll look after you, Sergeant.”

“Who’s we?” Bucky turns back to the man, fixing on his face like an anchor.

“The name’s Fury. I work for S.H.I.E.L.D. We’re a government organization, I believe you know our founder. Margaret Carter.”

“Peggy,” Bucky says automatically. “Is she—”

“She’s still alive. She’s in a nursing home in Washington D.C.”

“Howard Stark?”

“Died in a car accident in the 90’s. He’s got a son, though. Anthony.”

“What year is it now.”

“2011.”

2011\. Bucky sways. It’s 2011, Howard’s been dead for over a decade, and all Bucky can think about is the look on his face as Bucky walked away from him for the last time, the hurt swimming behind resignation. Bucky hadn’t even cared.

_I ain’t got a home, without him here._

_You could try._

But can he, now? 

* * *

 

It’s lonely in the future. S.H.I.E.L.D. puts Bucky up in a small apartment in Manhattan, simply furnished, as close to 1940 as they can get it. Bucky tries to acclimate as best he can—he spends a lot of time at the library, catching up with the last seventy years. He gets a small cell phone; he goes to a lot of coffee shops; he gets a gym membership.

Most of it’s easy. But god, he’s lonely. Nobody talks to each other anymore.

It’s late at night and Bucky’s the only person in the gym. He’s on what must be his eight-thousandth pull-up when he feels rather than hears Nick Fury behind him.

“You’re out late, soldier.”

Bucky drops to the floor and swipes a hand across his forehead. He doesn’t turn to face Fury; he’s heard that tone before.

“You got a mission for me?”

“I do.”

Bucky sighs, unraveling the bandages around his hands. He’s tired of missions. Honestly, he’s just bone tired. “For me, or for Captain America?”

Nick’s silence is answer enough. Bucky turns to face him and holds out a hand for the file.

As soon as he flips it open, his stomach churns.

“This is…”

“The Tesseract.” Fury nods.

“The Tesseract is gone.” The Tesseract has to be gone. It has to be.

“Howard Stark fished it out of the ocean when he was looking for you.”

_You could try._

Oh, Jesus, Howard…

Bucky flips the file shut and shoves it back into Fury’s hands. He can’t stop shaking. This is twisted, this is wrong… the damn thing should have died with Schmidt.

Bucky should have died with Schmidt.

“Captain America will report for duty in the morning,” Bucky says, wooden, turning his back on Fury and snatching up his gym bag. “Send him the coordinates.”

“Is there anything of use you can tell us about the Tesseract?”

Bucky doesn’t even slow on his way out of the door. “Yeah. Howard should have left us in the fucking ocean.”

When he gets back to his apartment, he pulls out his old brown suit, the one Howard made him to die in, and the new Captain America suit S.H.I.E.L.D. had made for him. Painstakingly, he removes the S. R. patch from Howard’s suit and stitches it onto the left shoulder of the new one. Then he fishes out the bright red thread from his cheap sewing kit and turns the suit over, pulling the fabric of the other shoulder taut.

It takes him almost two hours. It’s messy and wonky and it would’ve made his mama cry in frustration.

But when Bucky finally collapses into bed, Howard Stark’s initials are emblazoned on his suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me s o m e b o d y caught my little TAZ reference.
> 
> sorry, folks, it's been a rough few months. hope this makes up for it a little bit. come see me on tumblr @sincereleo, please!! i'd love to hear from you!

**Author's Note:**

> I plan on taking this all the way through Endgame. It's going to take a long fucking time, so bear with me. My handle on tumblr is the same as here, come visit me there and send me any questions/thoughts/encouragement you may have!!


End file.
